


The Double Life of the Secret Black

by Lunaira_Crescent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, and i'm writing it, and it doesn't help that he's crushing after a dark lord, harry is so confused all of the goddamn time, his life is fucked up, who he's somehow managed to befriend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunaira_Crescent/pseuds/Lunaira_Crescent
Summary: It was quite a shock for Harry Potter to learn who he was. And it was even more of a shock for him to learn that the Malfoys could be civil, even downright kind to him, and, somehow, he doesn't hate it. Now if only he could get rid of these pesky feelings for a certain dark lord...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Theodore Nott, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom/Blaise Zabini, Rabastan Lestrange/Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Rodolphus Lestrange
Comments: 18
Kudos: 209





	1. Birthdays? More Like Truthdays!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not a baby boomer.

Harry Potter sat on the small window sill of the smallest bedroom at #4 Privet Drive, looking through the tiny window in his sorry excuse of a room.

The stars weren't as bright as they were at Hogwarts. The skies of the Scotland plains were much brighter and lovelier to gaze at. Looking at the sky, it was a bit of a shame, really. Such a beautiful night sky turned so dark and grey. And it didn't help that the moon was crescent that night. It was good for Remus, sure, but not good for the brightness of the sky. He nearly mourned it. Whenever his head hung low and his hands in his trouser pockets, the stars were always a comfort.

A sigh left his chapped lips and he raked a hand through his hair. It was days—or nights—like this that made him wish that things were different.

He wished things were simpler. He wished that he didn't have to deal with being the Boy-Who-Lived, with hiding so much of himself, with changing his entire being to be accepted. Maybe then he would be comfortable. But that, unfortunately, is the life of one Harry Potter, even if he would do anything to change it.   
  
Gazing at his slightly cracked wrist-watch—one that he had found in the junk that was piled in the corner of the tiny room—, he found that it was only a few seconds before his birthday. He hoped that he would get some presents from his friends, but considering how he hadn't gotten any letters from them at all that summer, even though they promised that they would keep in touch, he didn't keep his hopes up.

Maybe he could make a wish, at least. He was entitled to make one on his birthday. There were stranger magicks in the world, anyway. Surely he could make a simple wish?

His luminescent green eyes closed tightly. Threading his fingers together, he wished as hard as he could.

 _I wish I don't have to be the Boy-Who-Lived. I wish I was accepted for being me. I wish... I wish for a life, love, and family. They don't have to be blood or anything, but please... I'll do_ anything _for it... Please..._

_Tap. Tap. Tap_

Harry's green eyes jerked open and hands went to the latches, ready to open the window and get Hedwig inside the house before she was spotted by any passerby.

He blinked, though, when he realized that the round, brown owl that he was about to open the window for was, in fact, _not_ Hedwig. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and Harry gazed at the normally nocturnal animal with narrowed eyes.

An excited gasp left his lips and a grin etched its way onto his face for the first time in months. 

Maybe it was _Ron_ or _Hermione_ , he thought. Sure, he didn't actually _recognize_ the strange owl, but who's to say they didn't borrow one, to make it so Voldemort couldn't track it? 

Harry jumped up and immediately unlatched the window, hurrying the creature inside before anyone saw it. He could barely wait and he untied the letter from the owl's claws, barely noticing that the creature left immediately after.

He tenderly held the letter, caressing it slowly. It was the first connection he had to the magical world in months! Not since a few weeks before, after he had had to get rid of his subscription to the Daily Prophet after his aunt and uncle complained about the owls. Though the smear campaign the ministry had started against him and Dumbledore was probably still going strong, he thought, remembering the few articles about him and the headmaster that he had read.

_#4 Privet Drive,_  
_Little Whinging, Surrey_

_Hadrian Potter-Black-Gaunt_

He blinked once, then twice, then three times before he wiped his glasses with his sleeve.

_Was this a joke?_

It surely was. He wasn't a Black. And even if, for some reason, he had the name because Sirius was his godfather, wouldn't it have appeared on his Hogwarts letter? Or, well, maybe not. The letters were most likely sent magically, and his name was written as "Mr H. Potter" on the thing, but no one had _ever_ mentioned him being a Black. Let alone his name being Hadrian. Sure, he thought there was a ring to the name, but it wasn't his. And what about "Gaunt"? He had never heard of that family before. No Gaunts had come to Hogwarts and neither of his parents was a Gaunt. 

He shook his head, confusedly. The letter was most likely not from his friends, then. But it also raised the question, if it wasn't from Ron and Hermione, who was the letter from? And why did they call him by that name? Maybe it was for someone else? But even if it was, why would it come to him? To Privet Drive, no less? And if so, how were they a Potter? 

He didn't know.

Well, there was no way to know but to find out, he thought, his recklessness shining through. 

Turning the letter around, he rubbed the wax seal on the back with his thumb. It was the Gringotts insignia. He had seen quite a few students and teachers over the years get a letter from Gringotts—Malfoy, Neville, Zabini, Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore, etc.—but he had never gotten one himself, and he never saw any reason to. So why did the get one now? Maybe it was because it was his fifteenth birthday? 

He knew it occasionally had some significance in the muggle world, but he doubted that it would in the magical world. But it _did_ show up on his birthday. It probably wasn't a coincidence. 

Still, it was a bit worrying. As far as he knew, he only had the vault his parents left him. Nothing more, nothing less. Could something have happened to the vault? Could he have lost all of the money he got from his parents? Everything? 

No, no—he simply couldn't have. He doubted that Gringotts would let that happen, and there was no good reason at all for him to lose anything. He was fine. His inheritance was fine, he reassured himself. Everything his parents left him was fine.

A relieved sigh left his lips, and his shoulders sagged. He had nothing to worry about. Hopefully.

Well, maybe not about losing his money, but there must have been a reason that he got a letter from Gringotts. And the thickness of the letter didn't seem to help his anxiety any. 

The letter itself was quite thick. It was if there was more than one letter inside the envelope. And that most certainly did _not_ help his anxiety. 

Biting his lip, he decided to get it over with. 

Harry opened the letter with his fingers—which wasn't as painless as muggles would think, not in the least. After he started Hogwarts, he understood why letter-openers were sorely needed. Unfortunately, only Hermione had one in his small friend group, so he and Ron had to make due—not without begging the bushy-haired witch for her letter-opener, of course. More often than not, they had to filch it from her if she refused them, saying that they should have gotten their own.

Now, looking at the envelope, he took the first, but thinner, letter out. 

Should he really open that letter, Harry contemplated, and not for the first time that evening. What if it was cursed? Or what if it really _was_ from Ron and Hermione somehow and they wanted to tell him that they didn't want to be his friends anymore. What if...what if they found out about him? What if they found out the truth? Would they hate him? No, wait, that was a dumb question. They would hate him. No questions asked. 

Taking deep breaths, the teen paced the room. Though that didn't really mean much. It was quite a small room, only barely bigger than some of Hogwarts's broom closets. 

He paced for another minute or two, letting his thoughts come out, but debunking all of his concerns. 

No. They couldn't find out. He had made certain that no one could. And there was no evidence, anyway. Unless one of the guards—because he was suspicious Dumbledore had someone guarding him, even though he could never quite catch them—heard one of the neighbourhood kids talking about him and then told Ron and Hermione. 

A shiver came from his spine at that thought. They would hate him, surely. But, even then, what were the chances of one of the guards overhearing neighbourhood kids talking about him, then telling Ron and Hermione, and then his friends sending him a letter—well, two—from Gringotts just to tell him that they hate him and don't want to be his friends anymore? 

Actually, considering his luck, it was a very high chance. But that didn't make him feel any better.

Harry cursed, shaking his head. His worries wouldn't get him anywhere. He had to read the letters first. 

He placed the envelope, with one of the letters still inside it, on the old, rickety table in the room, right next to the door. 

Placing himself on the floor next to the table, he opened the smaller letter. 

  
_Dear Mr Hadrian Regulus Potter-Black-Gaunt,_

_It has come to my attention that, as you have been emancipated, the letter that was set to be sent to you on the date of your majority has been instead sent to you on your fifteenth year instead. This letter was sent to you by one Lillian Rosaline Evans-Gaunt-Potter and given to us with the explicit instructions to send it to you upon your seventeenth year._

_My Regards,_

_Ripaxe_

_Manager of the Evans-Gaunt Estate and Vaults_

_Manager of the Black Estate and Vaults_

  
What? What was this? What was going on? His middle name was James, not Regulus. But then again, he had never heard his middle name before second year, so maybe McGonagall just assumed...? But even so, who was this Regulus? Was he an old friend of his parents? Did he die? Was that why Regulus was his middle name—to remember him by? Was this Regulus why he was supposedly a Black? Was he a relative of Sirius? And who was Lillian Rosaline Evans-Gaunt-Potter? 

Wait... It was his mother! Her full name was Lillian Rosaline Evans-Gaunt-Potter! He had never heard her full name before, so he had just _assumed_ her name was simply Lily Potter nee Evans, but it turns out she must have kept her name but just hyphened it with Potter. But where did the Gaunt come from? Was it her mother's last name? Was it family tradition or something?

Questions raced through his mind, and Harry found that he had absolutely no answers for nearly all of them. Quite frankly, he was sure his ears were beginning to steam from the shock of it all. 

He jumped up and immediately swiped the second, much thicker letter, from the envelope, leaving the first letter on the desk. 

Harry opened the letter, and as he did so, a silver trinket fell to the floor. 

He bent down and grabbed it, holding it out in the light of the window, since the light in the room had stopped working ages ago, and Merlin knew the Dursleys didn't care to fix it. 

It was a ring. It had a simple, thick silver band, but a fairly modest circular emerald glittered in the middle. 

Harry smiled. It was pretty, even more so since it was a gift from his mother. 

A large warmth bubbled up in his chest, and a wide grin grew on his face. The faint wisp of willowy, comforting magic tickled his senses, and at that moment, he _knew_. For certain. It was from _her_ —his mother.

He placed the ring on his left middle finger, and he could immediately feel a warmth surrounding him. And even though it dissipated within moments, Harry felt as if he was truly hugged by his mother, even if it was only her magic. No, it was _because_ it was her magic. Magic is a part of someone. It _is_ someone. So, yes, he _was_ hugged by his mother. The first one, and the only one, he could remember.

A long, relaxed sigh left the boy's lips, making every single worry he had carried leave his relaxed muscles. He stayed that way for nearly five minutes, basking in the aftermath of the pseudo-hug, and even though the "effects" had worn off long ago, he still wanted to enjoy the feeling while it lasted. 

It took nearly ten minutes to shake it off, and that was only because of the thick letter from his mother tantalized him with curiosity. Normally, he wasn't the most curious person—actually, that was a big, fat lie—but now, he felt as if all the curiosity in the world had settled into a weight onto his shoulders. Making him want to devour whatever was in the letter. Making him _want_ to know. It was a strange feeling. But one he accepted whole-heartedly.

He sat on the edge of the table—though, later on, he'd regret that decision—and flipped the note open. 

_My dear little Hadrian,_

_If this letter comes for you, and we're not reading it together, that means I'm dead. I'm deeply sorry for that because the only reason I currently see for my death is being murdered by Voldemort._

_My little star, I hope you don't hate me for what I'm going to tell you. If you hate anyone, please, let it be the arrogant, bullying toerag that dared to call himself my husband._

_You may be shocked right now, and you may be wondering why I insulted the man you call father, but it will sense when I tell you. Or, well_ write _to you._

_It all started just a few months after I married James in March, so this took place in June of 1979._

_Growing up, I used to have a friend called Severus Snape, you may know him. Knowing him, he wouldn't hesitate to be anything other than a well-known potions master. But, anyway, Severus came to my home. He wanted to apologize for our rift. We had known each other since we were children. He told me about magic, in fact. But, once we started Hogwarts, our friendship strained. Severus befriended blood purists, and he started falling in their beliefs. I hated that. I still do. But I stayed with him each time he apologized. He was my first friend, after all. But, there was an accident in fifth year._

_James and his friends—well, it was just James and Sirius, looking back—had used the levicorpus charm to string Sev upside down by his ankle. And they knew full well that Severus invented the charm himself. That made it worse. They had always bullied Severus, ever since we came to Hogwarts, and I had tried to come to Severus's rescue this time. Like I always did. But this time, when I tried doing so, he called me a mudblood, so I yelled at him and left. Soon after, he came to apologize. He even spent several days camped outside the Gryffindor common room just to see me, but in my blindness and hatred of that word and his death eater friends, I didn't forgive him, and I ended our friendship. Today, I wonder if I could have salvaged our friendship, maybe saving Severus as well._

_And then in June, Severus had come to my and James's house in Rowen's Wall—a province near Scotland—to apologize and renounce his ways as a death eater. I was about to forgive him, but James stood up and yelled at Severus, calling him all sorts of filthy words and terms, even cursing him. He didn't believe him at all, even though I could see that he was sincere. Severus kneeled in front of me and begged._ Begged _, Hadrian. Severus doesn't do that. But James didn't listen when I told him this. He said we shouldn't trust him. And that Severus was a filthy death eater. He didn't give Sev a chance. He never did._

_That night, I saw the true colours of the man I called my husband. I wondered how I ever blinded myself to what I had always known him to be. Yes, he did mature over the years, and I did care about him, but he was always so narrow-minded. He couldn't see anything in grey. Only black and white._

_I tried to stop James. I cried and yelled, but I couldn't get through to him. Severus already left by that point. He got the message from James, I suppose. I could only assume he went back to Voldemort._

_From then on, James and I started having problems. We started arguing, fighting over the littlest things. We stopped getting along. And I can say that I was part of the hostility as much as James was. One night, James didn't come straight home after working as an auror. Instead, he went out to the bar, as I later found out._

_Two nights later, James came home and was vomiting on the floor. I came to heal him, but I smelt women's perfume. I tried asking James from who's it was, but he brushed me off and said Alice Longbottom was feeling particularly huggy that day at work. I didn't quite believe him, especially since Alice only ever wore lemon perfume and not lavender. I told this to James, but he got angry. He started telling me that I wasn't trusting him enough. That I should listen to him more. He just kept screaming and screaming._

_All throughout that, I was crying, wondering why I had ever fallen in love with this man. Then, he glared at me and said I gathered the few things I had of my own and left. For good. At least I hoped._

_I went back to my childhood home, though it's now been burnt beyond repair—don't ask—and stayed there for a night. The night after the fight, I ended up going out to a muggle club, wanting to melt in my sorrows. There, I meet a handsome man around the same age as me, and we ended up talking. We talked and talked for hours, even finding out that we were both magical before we had both gotten so drunk that we could barely think. Neither of us could apparate, so we walked to my house since it was a bit closer._

_For nearly two weeks, we talked, and then we had sex for the first time. It was amazing, and he was better than James in bed. Yes, I do know that it was fast, but I really do think that I love him, or could have loved him. Soon after I found out that this man was Regulus Black—Sirius's younger brother—when a glamour that covered his dark mark came off. I didn't want to hear a word from him when I saw it, and I left to Alice Longbottom. She and I were good friends, and she let me stay for a bit._

_Somewhere around November, I had found that Regulus had disappeared. I was heartbroken, but I was hopeful that he had died at the same time. Now, I realize that I had loved him, even more than I did James, but I couldn't admit it then. During that time, I realized that I was pregnant with you._

_I knew immediately that it was Regulus's, but Alice assumed it was James's, and so she told him. James ended up coming to me and "manning" up, taking responsibility for you and apologizing for what he did. But the damage was done. I didn't trust him anymore, even though I told him that I forgave him and he started acting nice again._

_Right now, you must be afraid, terrified for what this could mean for you. But you must also be wondering about something else. Your appearance. You look like James because I glamoured you. You looked just like Regulus. And though you were absolutely adorable, I couldn't let people catch on._

_Before you were born, I made sure to look into glamours for this exact circumstance. The only thing I could really find was in blood magic. Yes, it's considered dark by the ministry, but it isn't as bad as they say. They really are blind in my time. Blood magic—dark magic—isn't all evil. It can be used for good as well as bad from what I see. And if you're wondering about the ring, I charmed it to remove and return your glamour. All you have to say is "release my glamour" in parseltongue to remove it, and "put back my glamour" to put it back. But make sure to keep the ring on when you have the glamour on. If it's off, you won't be able to put the glamour back on._

_You might also be wondering about the parseltongue, I'm sure. I also have the ability, and you inherited it as well. When you were a baby, you actually spent a month hissing all over the house. You absolutely* refused *to speak in anything other than parseltongue. It was a pain to hide the truth from everyone. Remus was pretty suspicious, actually, until, one day, he stopped questioning it. He probably thought it was just a phase._

_And as to how we have the ability, we are descended from Corvinus Gaunt, a wizard from the 18th century. Corvinus was an ancestor of Voldemort as well. Corvinus had a first son, Livius, but when he was found a squib, he was cast out of the family. He was my paternal ancestor. And since I am magical, and so are you, we both have the ability to have the Gaunt family name and a large claim to the Gaunt family assets. Or what little they had left, at least._

_My son, I understand that this is a large shock, even with me here to tell you, but know that I only want the best for you. Maybe you can find your father if he is alive, tell your uncle Sirius, or other relatives if you can find them. I just want you to be happy and in contact with your remaining relatives. At least the good ones._

_I love you, my son,_

_Your mother,_

_Lily_

Harry's face turned white as his green eyes blazed across the pages, and his hands shook with the force to keep himself from crumbling the letter and throwing it into the garbage right then and there. 

_No_ , he thought. No, no, no, no! It couldn't be true! It couldn't! He was the son of James Potter! He was Sirius's godson! He was a _Potter_! He wasn't a _Black_! He was Sirius's _godson_ , not his _nephew_! He couldn't... He _couldn't_ be... 

A sob left Harry's lips, and a tear went down his cheek before he could wipe it. But he didn't really notice. All he noticed was his world being destroyed around him. Shattered.

Everything he knew about himself—gone. His looks—gone. Everything he was—gone. _Everything_ was gone.

He didn't need this. His father wasn't a death eater. He wasn't the _spawn_ of a death eater. He just wasn't. 

But would it really be bad if he was? Wouldn't it be worse to be the son of a bully? To be the son of someone who had treated his mother so cruelly? Wouldn't it be better to be the son of someone his mother loved—someone who did seem to care about her, even if he _was_ a death eater?

The thoughts entered his mind without him really noticing. They were a small, but loud part of him. And they were yelling. And, for the life of him, he couldn't refute their claims. James Potter had treated his mother cruelly. He did, didn't he? And there was no excuse for that. 

But what if the letter was a lie? 

When that thought came, Harry realized that he took the letter at face-value without being even the least bit sceptical. 

He flushed, red inching down his neck. He really didn't care to fact check, did he? He had a bad habit of doing that, and where had it gotten him? Nowhere, really. 

Well, it got him to nearly being killed multiple times, he thought.

Harry sighed at his own stupidity, but it took some stress off of his shoulders. The letter could be fake. It might not be from his mother. It could just be a prank. Someone might have just sent it just to be cruel. The public hated him these days, after all. So it was a fake. 

He nodded to himself. _Yes, it was a fake,_ he thought. 

But when he went to rake his hands through his hair again, he felt the weight of the ring still on his hand. 

The boy frowned when he saw it. Putting his hand out in the moonlight, he contemplated. 

The feeling he had when he put the ring on couldn't have been faked. Yes, it could have just tricked him, but, deep down, that magic was familiar. It still was. He could just _feel_ the buzz on the ring. The buzz hadn't grown any weaker or stronger, it was just...there. Ever constant. He had actually grown used to it. And it was so, so familiar. Achingly so.

Harry rubbed the emerald in the band, a gesture that he was sure would become a nervous one if he kept the ring. But that bore a question—would he keep the ring? Was it really his mother's? Did she really send it? And was she really related to Voldemort? Was _he_ related to Voldemort? The murderer of his parents? Or, well, his mother and who could very well be an arsehole?

With all of those running through his mind, a downtrodden sigh left him. He didn't know. He had so many questions and absolutely no answers.

But maybe he could get at least one.

An idea entered his mind, and he leapt up. It could work... If the ring worked as it was supposed to in the letter, then it would be the truth. If it didn't, well, he would be safe. Everything he knew would be safe. It would be safe.

Harry's lips quirked up in a smile. It would be alright. The ring wasn't going to work. He would still himself. He was sure of it. And even if it did, would it really be so bad? He would be related to Sirius. Sirius would be more than just his godfather, he'd be his _uncle_. And a much better one than Vernon. He might even have some more relatives. Hopefully, they wouldn't be so bad. He could only hope. 

Shaking his head, he reprimanded himself. He was thinking ahead if everything. He hadn't even figured out if it was true at all. It could still be a lie.

But somehow, it didn't feel like it was. 

The ring glittered in the light, and, to Harry, it looked as if it was daring him to check. To see if the letter really was the truth. To find out...

He took a deep breath and straightened himself out a bit. This was it. He wasn't going to chicken out. He was a Gryffindor. A Slytherdor, for sure, but still Gryffindor. And he wasn't going to be a coward, unlike a certain rat that he had the..."pleasure" of meeting...

He put a finger on the ring's gem, and he felt the magic in the ring. It didn't seem like that much, to him. He couldn't quite tell what the magic was for, not like with more powerful spells, but he could feel a similar sense from it like he got from the finite charm. It was a sort of...release feeling...if that was a feeling. 

He opened his mouth, ready to say the words, but his mouth closed up, and he stuttered to get the words out. "R...rel-rele–re—ugh!"

Harry groaned, hating his inability to speak at that moment. He was going to say it, damn it! He wasn't going to fail. He was going to find out if this was the truth. He just _was_! And he wouldn't chicken out! He wasn't just going to forget this ever happened either!

With new resolve, he opened his mouth and spoke.

_"~Release my glamour.~"_

**★★★**

The teen gasped as, suddenly, a huge weight that he never knew he carried left his shoulders. The feeling left him suffocating, and he fell to the floor. 

His breath came out in strangled pants, and his heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he was sure the Dursleys would wake up to complain. It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming, but an agonized moan left him instead. 

Harry clawed at his navel, but the pain didn't stop. If anything, it escalated. It felt like something was growing bigger, coming back. Something that used to be small was growing in size, and Harry wasn't sure if it was bad. 

In fact, it felt like it was always supposed to be there. As the feeling in his navel grew, pleasant tingles erupted in his body. Tingles went all the way up to his arms, shoulders, and head, and all the way down to his knees, feet, and toes. 

The moment the pain stopped, and the growing finished, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

After a moment, Harry groaned with the effort of lifting himself up. Just because he wasn't in pain anymore, didn't mean he wasn't absolutely sore.

When he managed to place himself on the side of the desk, he opened his eyes right and proper, but his vision was blurred. 

Harry felt around the floor, looking for his glasses. But, to his surprise, they were not there. Instead, he felt the distinct feeling of his glasses on his face. 

His hands went to the frame, and he gently peeled it off. 

His hands shook, and a grin split across his face. 

He could see... He could _see!_

A joyous laugh bubbled up in his chest, and he couldn't stop it from coming out. 

He bit onto his too-large shirt and he muffled his crazed, and somehow relieved, laugh. 

His vision was clear. It was 20/20! If that was how other people saw the world for their whole life, he was jealous. 

Looking at the room, even though it was dark, he felt the urge to touch every single thing. He could see _everything_. 

He jumped up, and the moment he did so, he nearly danced a jig. His muscles felt stronger than he was used to, though they were still weak from malnutrition. Still, they were a bit stronger. And that was great. Amazing, really.

Grinning like a loon, Harry walked to the back of the room and ruffled through the trash. Well, trash was an overstatement, he supposed. The "trash" might have been a bit scratched, but most things still worked. He _did_ get his watch from it, after all. Dudley, though, was a whining brat, and whenever he even so much as _scratched_ his things, he demanded a new one and threw his old things in his second bedroom. Which he still did now when he was home during the summers, even though the room was technically Harry's. 

Aha! Harry patted himself on the back when he finally fished out a navy blue hand mirror. There was only a long, but thin crack running along the side. Which, evidently, meant that it was "broken" in Dursley terms.

He shook his head at his relatives' stupidity. They were destroying and throwing away perfectly good objects. Buying new ones when the old ones were still perfectly useable was a waste of money in his opinion. 

Harry looked into the mirror. Hesitantly, he examined himself.

His once square-shaped face had turned into more heart-shaped, which was a lot like his mother's, actually. And the tanned skin he sported from days upon days out in the sun, working for the Dursleys, had turned fair and very pale. Not Snape pale, but just...fair. Sort of like Sirius's. But healthier. 

His hair had gone through a great change of itself, too. Jet-black, messy curls now fell all the way to just beneath his shoulders, seeming more curly than messy.

Looking at his forehead, it was covered up by his bangs quite easily. And now that his hair was no longer as messy as before and nor didn't stick up and defy the laws of gravity, it looked longer, falling to just an inch beneath his shoulders. Though he couldn't find it in himself to think of it as a bad thing, he thought.

He hummed in approval and moved his bangs to look at his scar. 

Harry's eyes widened a bit when he saw that it no longer had that reddened, newly scarred look that he was so used to. In fact, the scar itself now looked like a normal scar, more or less. It was still light pink. And it was a bit more pronounced than most, but it was easier to hide. He could probably put concealer on it and nobody would notice it there. Of course, covering it with his bangs would also be easy, too.

He was happy about that. He was less recognizable. His eyes, though, that was the real difference. 

His eyes, once emerald in colour, now looked a shade or two brighter. They were bright like a gem, but more similar to a certain spell that he didn't want to think about at that moment. His eyes looked quite eerie when contrasted to his complexion. He looked somewhat otherworldly. He looked like a Black. 

And, somehow, that didn't seem bad. It would be nice to not have to be the Boy-Who-Lived for once.


	2. Our Favourite Idiot Escapes Prison—Sorry, the Dursleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, let's see what Harry gets up to today. Well, from my amazing chapter title, I think you already know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not that old!

_And, somehow, that didn't seem bad. It would be nice to not have to be the Boy-Who-Lived for once._

The smile fell off of his face when a frankly terrifying thought entered his mind. 

His father was a death eater. _His father was a death eater._

 _Shit, what was he going to do about this? He was the son of Regulus Black! A_ death eater! _That would change_ everything! 

His throat tightened and his breath left him in pants. 

He had no idea what this would mean for him. He had always thought he was the son of James Potter. And now he wasn't. As it turned out, James Potter was a horrible, horrible human being who bullied and belittled Snape, hurt and insulted his mother, and maybe even cheated on her! That man was a git, but he had known him as his father for so long, even if he had never met him. And now, the man reminded him more of _Dudley_ or _Malfoy_ than anyone he could consider his _father_.

Now, he had absolutely no idea what to do. Who should he tell? What should he say? Should he go by Hadrian now? Could he even go by Potter? Did he even _want_ to?

A dry sob escaped his lips, and he curled into the fetal position. 

Something was wrong. This was wrong. _It was wrong!_ He was the son of _James Potter_ , not _Regulus Black_! He was the son of a hero, not a death eater. His father was a hero. His father was a hero. His father was a hero. _He just had to be._

Harry silently chanted those words of comfort through his chills and his sweating and his pounding heart. Those words grounded him, but they left a disgusting aftertaste in his mouth. 

He knew. He knew he wasn't James Potter's son. His looks attested to it. And the faint smell of herbal soap on his mother's letter. Remus said she always smelt like herbal perfume. And no one would go to that much trouble just to fake a single letter. They couldn't know that much, or else they would have to have been close to his mother.

But that didn't really matter.

In his whirlwind of thoughts, the only thing that really mattered was: _my father is a death eater my father is a death eater my father is a death eater._

Even with his internal chanting, he still couldn't process it. His father wasn't a death eater. He couldn't be. His father _sacrificed_ himself for him, he had _heard_ it. So _why_? Why would Regulus do it? Was he really so horrible? Did he take advantage of Lily in her grief? 

He didn't know. _He didn't know._

Tears fell from his face like a waterfall, and even though the sweating and chills started abating, he couldn't really care. He didn't. It was _hard_ to care. It was hard to care about anything when his word was crashing down all around him. It was burning down. Everything he knew was burning down. Gone. Down into a deep abyss where it was never to be found. 

Harry held himself tightly into a fetal position, almost like a self-hug. But it didn't do anything. Not really. He felt his nails mould crescents into his forearms, and, while it stopped his turmoil for a moment, the pain came back at full force. 

He spent another two hours in that position, crying and quietly sobbing and worrying. 

It was hard. He only just now turned 15. And he was expected to deal with all of this? Utter dragon dung. He didn't want any part of it. He didn't want any part of _anything_ he had a part of! All he wanted was to be normal, but he got sacked with so many crazy things that it made it hard to hope for normalcy anymore. Could he really not be normal? Was it impossible for him? He really didn't know. 

He had no idea of anything anymore.

Harry—Hadrian?—groaned as loudly as he dared into his hands. What should he do? Should he stay with the Dursleys? Should he leave? Should he tell anyone? His friends? Sirius? Dumbledore? The wizarding world? _Sirius?_

"Oh, bloody hell, " Harry whisper-shouted. Sirius was his uncle! His honest-to-Merlin _uncle_. He had an uncle! One that _didn't_ hate him! He had relatives!

A laugh bubbled in his chest. It was a surprising reaction, considering his earlier attack, but it wasn't unwelcome. In fact, Harry welcomed it and instead of laughing out loud, he stuffed his sleeve into his mouth. 

And then, he let it out. All of it.

He screamed. Sobbed. Laughed. And maybe all three at once. He didn't know what to feel, say, or even _do_. In the past few hours, his world was turned upside down, sideways, and backwards, and he doubted it could go back.

Harry stayed in that position for a little while longer. He stayed like that until his screaming quieted, his sobs left, and his laughs turned to silent chuckles. 

He was out of breath, yes, but he needed it. He needed it.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, keeping it in for a few moments. He was going to be alright, he breathed out. He was going to be alright.

And, as if a fire had ignited in his chest, he brightened. A smile lit up on his face, one that wasn't really explained or understandable to anyone else. 

It was a good thing. This was a good thing. Almost...

There was a lot of bad, yes, but there was good! Sirius was his uncle, he had living, magical relatives who might even be able to take him in—if they weren't jackarses, at least.

But...what if people were to find out? What would the say? What would they _do_? They would hate him! He was the spawn of a death eater! He wouldn't be the Boy-Who-Lived! And even though he hated that title, it would be preferable to being the son of _Regulus Black_! He'd be thought to be harbouring Sirius! Well, he was, but still!

He internally gasped. Sirius. What would he think? Would he hate him for not being the son of James? For being the son of Regulus—a death eater? He would—he'd hate him!

He couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell _anyone_! If he did, they'd hate him—all of them! 

He couldn't let them find out. _He couldn't._

The young teen spent a little while longer in that position, thinking—though it was more like worrying.

He had no idea what to do. Things changed so much in only three hours—he checked—and he didn't know what to do with himself. 

Thoughts raced through his mind in a flash and were given a no just as quickly. He just couldn't fake his death, nor could he run away to the states. That would be a very bad idea. He couldn't just abandon everyone to Voldemort. He was a Gryffindor, not a coward. Not like a certain rat that betrayed him and his parents. Or well, he, his mother, and James.

He groaned as loudly as he dared in Privet Drive, and his head knocked back into the wall that he was currently laying against. He was about to take off his glasses when he realized that he didn't have them, so he rubbed his tired eyes right away. 

Time to think didn't really help. If anything, it made him even more confused. He had no idea what could be done. All that he had resolved was that he couldn't possibly tell anyone yet, not until he got this sorted out himself. But he didn't know exactly _how_ to sort it out. He couldn't change his parentage. 

Maybe...maybe he could continue lying? He could still keep on the glamour since he still had the ring. 

Just to check, he put a finger on the gem and hissed, _"~Put back my glamour.~"_

And, just like that, his glamour came back on. His looks morphed back to the face that he had known through the years, and his scar returned to its usual reddened look. 

He winced, though, when he felt a pressure being put on his shoulders. It was faint, but it was there. The pressure wasn't as strong as the one that was released from him before, but he could only imagine that that was due to having the glamour on for his whole life. But, then again, he knew virtually nothing about glamours. Specifically blood glamours. Those things weren't really taught at Hogwarts, since they were dark magic and all. 

_"~Release my glamour~"_

Without really thinking about it, he released his glamour. He didn't know what it was, but he was entranced with his natural appearance. It didn't really feel natural to him in his mind—he half expected to have James's face the next time he looked into the mirror, even—but it felt natural to him instinctually. Like it was how he should have always looked. Which, then again, it _was_ , but still...it should have been hard to get used to having a completely new face! But it wasn't. At all. He couldn't help but find that at least a tiny bit strange. 

Maybe it was because he didn't look like his father so much...? When he was eleven, he like that he looked like him. But as he grew, he started to see that people always, _always_ saw him as a caricature of his father. Like his professors who had made comments such as _'oh, you're so much like your father!'_ or ' _you're the spitting image of him, dare I say. You could be his twin!'_ , which was infuriating. Mcgonagall was one of them, too. And _definitely_ Snape. Definitely him. That man hated him just for being James's son. Harry wondered what the dour professor would say when— _if_ he found out that he actually _wasn't_ the son of his childhood nemesis.

Of course, his new comfortability in his appearance could also have been partly caused by that...pressure, so to speak. When he was in that glamour, it was uncomfortable. Before, he had never noticed any sort of pressure, but that must have been because he was so used to it. Now, though, he was completely aware of it. He felt so much lighter now it was almost funny. He almost felt _too_ light—if that was possible. He couldn't imagine going back to before, now. And he didn't want to. It would be _hell_ at Privet Drive if he had to work, barely eat, _and_ keep the glamour on, especially when he felt so comfortable without it.

But he would be caught if he left, just like in third year. And he'd probably be sent back to the house since it would supposedly be "safer". He scoffed. If Privet Drive was safe, he dreaded to wonder what another place would be like.

But he didn't have to look like himself, did he?

Harry smirked as an idea made itself home in his mind. The Light side would be wondering where their "saviour" was for the rest of the summer. And he'd be relaxing for once.

**★★★**

The young teen winced as the door closed behind him in a loud slam. He tried to close it gently, but it seemed that the lightness he now felt made it so his judgement of the strength of other objects was muddled, at least a bit.

He sighed and shook his head, continuing to walk away from Privet Drive.

Harry walked along the sidewalk, the soft silk-like fabric of his invisibility cloak swishing along with his feet. Luckily, he hadn't outgrown his cloak. In fact, it seemed that it was always just the right fit for him and friends to hide under. He figured it was part of the enchantment that made it.

Once he got to the end of the street, he continued walking past a few more streets, taking great care to be as quiet as possible. He couldn't afford to be caught by any potential guards that the headmaster had given him. "Potentially" wasn't really accurate, though. He was sure that he had some, actually. 

Once, nearly a week before, he was sure he caught a violet-haired young woman staring at him, clad in dark blue robes that sort of looked like a dress. The only reason she managed to fit in enough with only a few curious glances was because of the fact that fashion standards had changed a lot over the years, so her clothes seemed normal. Then again, he was still surprised that she did. It was _Privet Drive_ , after all. Everyone was judgemental. From the smallest toddler to the elderly Mr Reynolds that lived a few houses over.

Harry finally stopped walking along the middle of Magnolia Crescent. It was far enough from the Dursleys' home so that he wouldn't be spotted, and it was unlikely that anyone would find him. Still, he looked around first. 

Gazing across the streets, he deducted that no one was there, but, then again, his guards were magical. They could very well have cloaked themselves. Though maybe not with an invisibility cloak. 

He closed his eyes, feeling a bit silly. The idea he had wouldn't work— _Surely._

Yes, he had always been able to sense magic, but it was always to an extent. It was only just a buzz, and the more powerful the magic, the more powerful the buzz. And he couldn't sense individual people. At least not in large crowds where the magic always seemed to mingle.

But now, he felt more powerful. He wasn't sure how much more, but it stood to reason that the glamour affected his magic. Though he didn't know how or how much. But he could try and find his limits, at least.

He stretched out his senses—his _being_. He doubted it would get far, though. The farthest away that he was normally able to sense was to the end of the classroom, though, if he was to stretch. Hopefully, he could stretch farther now. 

Keeping his eyes closed, he made sure to stretch as far as he could. When he was sure he did so, he delved into his magic and felt it as if it was an extension of himself. 

A gasp left his lips. 

His magic... It was extraordinary! 

Harry didn't quite _see_ his magic, but he felt it. It was powerful. It was deep. And it felt calm but ready to strike at a moment's notice. It was like a snake. It was deep, and green, and _powerful_.

His magic had never felt like that. Before, it was harder to grasp. It fizzled. And he had to concentrate harder to find it. But now...he didn't have to. 

He nearly whooped in excitement, but he didn't. He still didn't want to be caught. But now that he was mentioning it...

He felt throughout his senses, searching. 

His eyes burst open, glowing a bright, deep, killing curse green, though he didn't realize it. 

He narrowed his eyes, and his lips pursed significantly. He wasn't quite as surprised as he was annoyed—angry, really—but he was certainly surprised. 

He felt only one person with magic in the area. They had enough to be a decently powerful wizard—at least from what he had felt throughout his classmates—and another that seemed to only have a flicker of it. It was only a bit more magic than the natural magic every creature had to survive. 

The one with a flicker of magic—they were probably a squib—was in Wisteria Walk. More specifically, in the home of Arabella Figg. 

He nearly growled. Figg was a squib! Dumble _dork_ employed her to spy on him! He couldn't believe it!

What did that mean? Did she know? _Did she know how the Dursleys treated him?_

His fists clenched, and he was sure he'd see crescent nail marks later. But he didn't care. What he _did_ care about was that Dumbledore knew. _He knew_.

A crazed laugh ripped from his throat. And then another. And then another. 

Right before the first cackle, he felt his magic do something. He distantly realized that he had put some sort of silencing charm on himself, and he felt relief. No one could hear him. 

He screamed. Screamed. And screamed some more. He screamed until his throat was hoarse from all the screaming. He came close to breaking through the charm. 

Tears fell down his face, and he wiped them off with the back of his sleeve. It wasn't time to cry. Not right now. Crying was for later when he could afford to loudly curse Dumbledore's name.

 _It wasn't time to cry,_ he reminded himself. _It was time to leave._

But it was so hard to do that when he wanted to go on a rampage. To burn down the squib's house with her still in it. To grab his wannabe guard by the neck and force them to take him to Dumbledore just to scream and curse that old man until his own hands we're calloused and his mouth completely dry and hoarse from yelling out all of those incantations.

No. _No._ He couldn't do that. If he did, they'd all know who he was. He couldn't let that happen. And he almost didn't wonder why that was his only argument for not hurting an innocent—ok, well, maybe not that innocent—human being.

Harry froze, his eyes bulging and his mouth left gaping open in horror.

What...what was he thinking? _Why was he thinking like this?_ It was wrong. It should be wrong. Right?

But, the thing was, he wasn't feeling guilt. He felt guilty for thinking of doing the action, but if he actually did it, he wouldn't feel guilty. He'd feel...accomplished. Almost like he did something right.

But that was silly. He shouldn't feel accomplished for something like that. He should feel guilty. _Ashamed._

But what for? What should he be ashamed of? Thinking of a way to get revenge for how he grew up? For being forgotten even though there were people that _knew?_

He didn't have an answer. And at that moment, he understood Tom Riddle's hatred of the world. His deep-seated feelings of betrayal and hated of Dumbledore.

**★★★**

He walked further away from Wisteria Walk, all the way to the edge of the neighbourhood. And away from the prying eyes of any spies, Harry took off his cloak and put it in his trunk in which he had, somehow, managed to shrink down in his erratic quest to leave Privet Drive. The same trunk which he now placed in the pocket of his grossly over-sized hand-me-down jacket.

Holding out his wand hand, he focused on calling the Knight Bus. 

It barely took a second before the distinctive purple, triple-decker bus came barreling through. 

Harry was sure the giant monstrosity was about to crash into him, but, not a moment too soon, it skidded to a halt. Not an inch in front of him. He rethought his choice in transportation for a moment. 

But it was too late now. So, he threw out all of the little Slytherin self-preservation he owned and prepared to board.

The door to the bus opened, and a man—Harry remembered his name was Stan—greeted him. 

"Wotcha, there, welcome ter the knight bus!" 

The man looked the same as Harry remembered. He didn't seem any older than twenty, and his appearance still seemed unkempt, but it was better than the last time he saw him. Stan still had quite a bad case of acne, though, and he had even more acne scars as well.

Stan looked at him oddly. "Ya, there, ya butcher's familiar. 'Ave we met before?"

“No, " Harry said quickly, shaking his head. "No. Now, how much would it be to get to the Leaky Cauldron?” 

The dark-haired teen knew good and well that it would take 11 galleons, but he figured that for a supposedly "first time customer", that would be suspicious to know. Stan was a bit suspicious already, it seemed.

"Eleven Sickles, " said Stan, “but for firteen, you get ’ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’otwater bottle an’ a toofbrush in the colour of your choice.” 

Harry blinked. It looked like that line was rehearsed. The Knight Bus must get a large number of customers. Though, for the life of him, he had a hard time believing that. 

Harry ruffled around in his pocket, in which he had already taken out his pouch of galleons, and he put eleven of them into Stan's hand. "Here."

The conductor smiled, nodding his hat and bowing. "'Ope ya 'ave a sugar and spice trip!" 

The teen smiled back, already walking to a nearby four-posted bed that had dark blue covers with quilted swans. Idly, he still wondered how they had the idea to put beds on a _bus_ of all things. Of course, the mind of wizards worked in mysterious ways. Not like him. 

He chuckled, reminded of something similar he had heard from his uncle when the man was avoiding Harry's Hogwarts letters.

**★★★**

The moment the bus stopped, Harry rushed out, his hands covering his mouth. Bile grew in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.

Stan smiled and waved. "'Ope ter clock ya soon!"

Harry smile weakly and nodded. But he wasn't planning to go back anytime soon. His poor body would revolt on him if he did. 

The bus nearly flew away, and the teen winced as he saw all sorts of things—cars, mailboxes, light posts, and even a large, skinny black dog—fly out of the way. He felt sorry for the poor dog. 

The green-eyed boy shook his head, already walking into the Leaky Cauldron. He _really_ wasn't going on the bus anytime soon. 

Once he entered, he walked to the back of the bar where the owner and barman, Tom, was. 

The man was old, that was for certain, and his bald head nearly reflected the light. Harry would have giggled if it wasn't for the man's teeth. Or lack thereof. He looked like a toothless walnut. Very creepy. But the Leaky was his best bet of somewhere to go until the summer ended. He was _not_ going back to the Dursleys, not when he finally had a chance to not be recognized. 

So, he walked up to him.

"One room, please. For the rest of the summer." 

Tom raised an eyebrow at him and his too-large clothing, asking to stay for the summer. "The summer, you say? Well, it costs 8 galleons and 4 sickles per night. You'll have to pay per night, kid. Get out of here."

Harry bristled. That barman didn't even think he could pay! Granted he looked like a street urchin, but still. 

"No pay, no stay, kid. Now shoo." The man looked bored, almost as if he had to say that many times. 

Harry's eyes widened, and his stomach flipped. Crap. If he couldn't stay at the Leaky, then where could he go? Nowhere, that's where.

"Leave, kid."

Harry stepped back and was just about to leave when he blurted out, "Wait! I...uhh... I have money! I can stay here. It's just...umm... My parents! Yeah. My parents. They want me to stay here—to gain some independence, you know? I can pay. From my...trust vault, " _oh great_ , he thought, _now I came off as some rich, trust-fund kid,_ "So don't worry about that."

Tom's eyes narrowed, looking him up and down, examining the teen's clothing. "Oh yeah? Show me some money, and I'll believe you."

Harry let out a sigh of relief. It was a good thing he took a lot of money out of his vault last year. He still had about fifty galleons or so in his pouch. It barely fit inside until Hermione used a charm to make the space in the bag larger. Enlargement and feather-light charms were a gift to humanity, Harry had decided at the time. 

Taking out his pouch, he gave the landlord the allotted amount of money for the night.

He needed some rest. 

**★★★**

Before he got to sleep, Harry discovered that it was around four in the morning when he looked at a tiny, battered old clock located in the hallway. He wasn't sure if it was correct or not, but it seemed right. He must have taken up more time than he expected dealing with the...shocks...of the night. Harry could barely believe it took only four hours, really. It felt like a chapter ago of his life. 

Once he slept, he didn't dream for once. He supposed his mind needed to sleep off what he had discovered. But even when he awoke that morning, at the bright and early time of noon, everything felt surreal. 

He nearly expected to wake up to the screeches of his aunt from downstairs, telling him to get off of his lazy arse and make breakfast and clean the sitting room and do the laundry and countless other things. 

Instead, he woke up to the sound of chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter. It was pleasant. Though he was a bit cranky that he was woken up, at first. He hadn't gotten a solid eight-hour sleep in a while. If ever. Nightmares, chores, and his body getting used to the sleeping schedule kept him from getting too much rest.

Currently, he was walking through Diagon Alley, seeing the sights and basking in the feeling of not being recognized for once. It was nice. 

The scraping sound of his trainers on the cobblestones, the smell of fresh ice cream, new clothing, and perfume, the sight of wizards and witches in robes, muggle clothing, and even an occasional muggle nightgown or two, brought tears to his eyes. 

He could enjoy this. He could. Now, no one knew who he was. He could be himself without anyone being the wiser. He didn't have to pretend. To hide. To change himself and pretend to be what he wasn't. It was a refreshing change. 

He could be himself. He didn't have to he Harry Potter. No, not at all. He didn't have to be. What he was now was...Hadrian Black.

It hit him like a punch in the gut.

Is that what he wanted to be? Hadrian? Did he want to be the son of a death eater? The nephew of a supposed murderer? Was that really what he wanted for himself? 

He wasn't quite sure. 

Thinking about it, the idea became sweeter and less bitter to his battered mind. 

_Harry Potter_ was the boy-who-lived. An orphan whose parents were killed by a mass murderer and terrorist. 

But Hadrian Black... He was a Black. But no one really knew anything about him. They had no preconceived notions about him. Well, unless it was about him being a death eater. In which he was going to prove them wrong.

But even so, that didn't matter. He wasn't going to be one. 

What he was going to be was himself. He was going to he Hadrian. 

A wide grin lit up his face. 

Har—no, _Hadrian_ could be who he wanted without anyone calling him a Dark Lord in the making. Hadrian was an orphan, yes, but people didn't expect him to be any more than a teenager who was born into a bad family, but not even raised in it.

They didn't expect him to be anything other than that. 

Sure, yeah, there would be a large fuss about a new Black heir being discovered, but it would blow off after a while. Okay, maybe they'd watch him a lot, but it would be a lot less than Harry Potter, that was for certain.

Hadrian—because yes, that's who he was now—continued walking. He stepped up to Gringotts and politely nodded his head to the guards. 

They looked startled, almost as if they had seen a ghost. But they gave polite nods back.

Hadrian didn't know they would be spreading around the knowledge of a young man who could only be a Black giving them a nod of acknowledgement, which, in pureblood *and* goblin society meant acknowledging someone as an equal. He didn't realise the gravity of what he considered a simple, polite thing to do. But it would help him in the long run. That was certain.

**★★★**

Hadrian noticed a goblin near the far right of the large hall, and he approached confidently.

A while back, Sirius had told him that when dealing with the goblins, you had to make yourself seem confident, competent, and intelligent. Or else they would try to steal your money. 

Hadrian didn't really mind much. The wizards whose money got stolen were probably pretty stupid for letting it happen in the first place, so he didn't think much of Sirius's advice at the time, other than noting it to remember the next time he visited Gringotts, but now, he was preparing to visit a certain goblin—Ripaxe. The goblin who had sent him the letter.

He had mentioned that Hadrian was emancipated, but he didn't think much of it at the time because of the shock of, you know, suddenly having a letter from his _dead mother._

But now, Hadrian needed to speak to him. Now.

The goblin looked at him up and down, sneering at the teen's simple black robe, one that only cost him a few galleons. But of course, it was the only thing that he had that wouldn't be immediately sneered at. But it looked like he was wrong about that. He needed to remember to purchase some new robes after he went to his vault that day. Actually, he needed a whole wardrobe. If Hadrian Black and Harry Potter wore the same clothing, especially hand-me-downs, someone would inevitably get suspicious.

Back to the moment, the young Black slightly nodded his head at the goblin, not paying attention to the fact that the goblin's eyes seemed shocked for a moment. 

The goblin, Lugrod was his name, barely kept himself from gaping. The young wizard in front of him thought that he was an equal. An _equal_. No wizard did that. Though it seemed the young man—no, the young _Black_ , he noticed (for who else could have the Black nose and skin and hair?), did.

Lugrod had to keep from smiling. Interesting... The young man before him might just be worthy of respect. He would wait and see.

Right now, he would give what he got. So, he nodded back. 

"What do you need, young sir?" He said cheerily, making the other goblin tellers and some wizards freeze in shock. It was common knowledge that goblins were notoriously grumpy and rude. 

Hadrian, for one, was blissfully ignorant to what he had just done,—and he would be for quite a while—but was pleasantly surprised at the polite tone. The last few times he at the bank, the goblins were civil to him at most, and downright Snape-like at worst.

Smiling back, he said, "My name is Hadrian Black. I need to speak to Ripaxe, please."

Lugrod nodded. He wasn't surprised in the least. The boy's magic nearly _screamed_ that he was a Black. It was just as dark as the rest of his family's, though it was clear to anyone that knew a single thing about aura-reading that he hadn't used it to its full potential. But no matter, as that wasn't his job. He did note to tell that to Ripaxe later, though. The teen deserved that much. 

Lugrod called for another goblin, telling him in Gobbledygook to send the young Black heir to his family account manager. 

The young goblin, nothing more than a guide, currently, went off with the boy, and Lugrod busied himself with sending a quick note to Ripaxe through his magic. 

But what neither goblin nor wizard realized was that a certain Malfoy matriarch had seen and heard everything.

**★★★**

Hadrian walked just a metre behind his guide, a goblin who looked to be younger than the others he had seen, at least that was what Hadrian thought. The goblin seemed to have been just as surprised the others were when he nodded to him. 

The teen paid it no mind, and he continued walking. 

He tried memorizing the route to Ripaxe, but, no matter what he tried, he just couldn't. Gringotts was a maze of stone, marble, and gems imbedded into the _walls as if to show_ 'ha, we're richer than you!'. He could only think it was a spell of some sort—a part of the bank's defences.

Hadrian saw many different doors on his way to his account manager's office. There were doors made of wood, stone, marble, and some sort of material that looked like silver, but certainly couldn't be. He guessed that the doors were a sign of the status of the account manager. The more embellished and expensive the door was, the more status the goblin had. 

There were no names, though, and the teen internally scoffed, thinking, _Well, of course not. They don't want to make it easy for wannabe thieves, would they?_

Hadrian spent his time thinking. He wasn't sure what he should expect. And he wasn't sure how he was emancipated, either. And he really shouldn't be. Shouldn't he have had to sign some papers? Shouldn't his guardians—the Dursleys—have signed some things? They certainly would have agreed to it, even if they had to enter the magical world, but Hadrian should have been a part of the process, probably needing to give his own signature. And he _definitely_ would have heard about a group of muggles that wandered into the wizarding world, screaming about it and a certain "Potter boy". Hadrian silently laughed at the mental image of it. But had also silently prayed to the poor people who would have had to deal with them if that happened.

And no matter how much he thought, he couldn't seem to figure out what had happened. It's not as if he was against being emancipated—quite the opposite, actually—but he should have heard of it, at least. Maybe he should have gotten a notice from Gringotts? He didn't know. He resolved to ask Ripaxe. That was part of the reason he was there, anyway. He resolved to speak with his account manager about it first. 

He barely realized it when he and the guide stopped in front of the door to which he assumed to be to Ripaxe's office.

The door was made out of obsidian, and Hadrian got a buzzing feeling from it. It didn't feel very strong, but he was willing to bet good money that that was the goblin's way of keeping the fact that the office doors were warded secret. The extra protection really didn't matter much to him, but the teen knew that many wizards hated goblins—proven by the fact that they weren't allowed wands—and they never would have stood for them keeping their office doors warded to the nines, likely. Hadrian hated the prejudice, but it wasn't as if he could do anything. Then again, the Blacks were—and probably still are—a very well-known family. He probably had some status. Hopefully.

Pushing his thoughts into the back of his mind, he entered the door, and his guide left a moment after speaking to a goblin who was likely Ripaxe in Gobbledygook.

Hadrian's eyes quickly raked over the room. There were no windows, and the walls were obsidian. He didn't see any candles, and it seemed as if the light was in the room for no reason at all. The room was well lit, though, so he assumed it was a spell of some sort. An ebony desk was set in the front of the room, and on each side of it, to the wall behind the desk, was what looked like two steel—though it was most likely wasn't steel—file cabinets.

Hadrian stepped in from of the desk, and he politely nodded at his account manager, unknowingly gaining respect from him near immediately. 

"I am Hadrian Black." He said. 

Ripaxe, a fairly tall and thin goblin that looked old, and was dressed in a black muggle suit, nodded back and gestured for him to sit. 

Once he sat, the goblin cleared his throat. "As you know, I am Ripaxe, the Evans-Gaunt and Black family account manager." 

Hadrian nodded and started speaking. "Yes, I saw that in your letter. Now, it seems like we need to talk. I would like to know about my assets—what I have, who I have them from, how I have them—and about how I am emancipated. I have no idea how that happened, actually."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol. The kid has no idea he is gaining respect from goblins left and right. Next thing you know, he is a goblin friend. Not that that is a spoiler or anything...  
> Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. I procrastinated editing it again for posting until 10. It's 12 now and I have to work on removing markdowns and adding italics and stuff to this. Great...
> 
> And, right at this moment, I just finished everything 30 minutes later. Woohoo!


End file.
